


How to Live

by zanoranna (rei_c)



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: 5 Times, Breathplay, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-16
Updated: 2010-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23248024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/pseuds/zanoranna
Summary: Sometimes you have to forget how to breathe, in order to remember how to live.
Relationships: Fabio Cannavaro/Gianluigi Buffon, Gianluigi Buffon/Alessandro Del Piero
Comments: 5





	How to Live

**Author's Note:**

> Now translated into Russian by [grey_creature](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grey_creature) and posted [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23378446)!

_1._

“There is something Paolo told me once,” Canna says, lying on the ground next to Gigi, both of them risking censure and illness by being outside at this hour of the morning in just their pyjamas. Gigi doesn’t care; he can’t sleep, not with them facing Fiorentina the next day for the Coppa Italia -- Christ, it’s today, already, and they have to be awake in a few hours. Already the sun is threatening to arrive, the far horizon turning from black midnight to a lighter blue, enough to start highlighting the city of Firenze around them. 

“What’s that,” Gigi finally says.

Canna turns to look at him; Gigi looks back, struck by the whites of Canna’s eyes shining in the darkness. “He said we have to forget how to breathe so we can remember how to live.” 

Gigi blinks. “ _Maldini_ said that?”

“Yes,” Canna replies, and sits up. “Come on, Gigi. We should get back inside.” 

They sneak back in, the hotel staff turning an expert eye in the other direction, and Canna kisses Gigi before they duck into their rooms. 

Gigi stands there for a moment, thinks about Maldini, about Canna, about the game tomorrow. 

He sleeps, gets up, and Parma wins. Gigi stands on the pitch, grinning like a madman, exhilarated and exhausted, and then Canna comes over and hugs him, fingers pressing into the sides of his neck as Canna kisses Gigi on the cheeks and spins away again, laughing. 

Gigi thinks he understands what Maldini meant, what Canna was trying to say, and he touches his neck, licks his lips, then shakes his head. 

_2._

“No,” Trezeguet says, and he grabs Gigi’s arm, holds him back. “I need to. Come on, Gigi, just a few more, okay?” 

Gigi is tired, has already been run to the ground with penalties in today’s practice; he sighs and turns. “You don’t need more,” Gigi says. “David, you aren’t. You. It’s not your fault, all right? Dida is just better.” 

David’s face is lined with worry, with anger. He grips Gigi tighter, spits out, “Dida is _not_ better. I just need more practice. _You_ need more practice.” 

Gigi narrows his eyes. He knows they all think it, hell, _he’s_ thought it. A better keeper would’ve kept them in it. A better keeper could have made all the difference, once it got to penalties. A better keeper, but they only had him, and he castigates himself _enough_ , he doesn’t need help. 

Ripping his arm from Trezeguet’s grasp, Gigi says, “You aren’t the only one that missed, y’know, but I’m the only one who let them in. So just shut up about it, David, and go home.” 

Trezeguet’s cheeks flush with anger and he pushes Gigi backwards. Gigi stumbles, hits his head on the goal post and falls down, ears ringing. Trezeguet’s on him a moment later and has his hands around Gigi’s neck, choking him. Gigi’s vision wavers. He can’t breathe, feels a certain lassitude sweep over his muscles even as his lungs are begging for air; it feels good, feels sweet and hard and _not enough_ all at once, and then someone is pulling Trezeguet off of him and Gigi rolls onto his side, coughing as the oxygen hits his lungs. 

“Christ, Gigi, you okay?” Del Piero asks, crouched down next to him. 

Gigi starts to speak, coughs again as his throat protests, finally just nods. 

There’s something in Del Piero’s eyes, some emotion Gigi can’t place, but then their manager comes over and starts yelling and Gigi just lies back down, staring at the sky. 

_3._

It takes Gigi forever, but he brings it up to Del Piero, says, “Canna told me about something Maldini once said, about breath,” and stops when Del Piero starts to laugh. Gigi frowns, asks what’s so funny.

“Maldini likes breathplay,” Del Piero says, shrugging. “Captain of Milan, kinky fucker; he needs something off the wall to spice things up.” Gigi’s quiet, shocked but not at all, and it takes a moment but then Del Piero’s looking at him, really _looking_. “Why,” Del Piero asks, careful though Gigi doesn’t know why. “Do you like the sound of it?” 

Gigi thinks of Canna’s fingers on his pulse points, Trezeguet’s hands choking the life out of him, and says, “Yes,” when he means to say _no_. 

Del Piero nods, says, “Thought so,” and he turns to watch television, but he’s smiling. 

Later, when the movie is over and Gigi is in the kitchen, cleaning up, Del Piero presses him against the wall and rubs his thumbs on the pulse points fluttering under Gigi’s skin. Gigi has his hands on the wall, can feel Del Piero all along his back, and he lets out a harsh breath when Del Piero’s thumbs dig in for a handful of seconds, before softening the pressure. 

“You have to tell me you want more,” Del Piero says, the words passing straight from his lips into Gigi’s ear. “You have to trust me, Gigi.” 

“I do,” Gigi says. “And I want more.” 

Del Piero squeezes, harder and harder, until Gigi is seeing spots and his head is spinning. The wall feels insubstantial under his hands and Del Piero is a firm, unforgiving line behind him. He’s hard, and so is Gigi, and Gigi shivers, rubbing against the wall as the spots in his vision grow and grow and then take over completely, turning everything black. 

In the moment before he passes out, Gigi comes, feels Del Piero breathing hard and heavy like _he’s_ the one who’s being choked, hears his name, over and over again, “Gigi, oh, god, Gigi, fuck.” 

_4._

They never room together when they play for Italy, Gigi and Del Piero. Their manager has some inane idea about only putting together forwards with forwards, midfielders with midfielders, defenders with defenders. Gigi ends up with Canna, more often than not, but Canna is often out dealing with the team, their manager, spends more time with Pirlo than anyone else. Gigi misses him, the way their friendship hasn’t stayed as strong as it once was, at Parma, but it gives Gigi time with Del Piero. 

They’ve been careful but the atmosphere in Germany, playing in the World Cup and playing _well_ , has gone to their heads. Gigi is nearly unconscious when he hears the door open and a voice, as if from a long distance or down a tunnel, saying, “Alessandro, what the _fuck_.” 

“Shut _up_ ,” Del Piero says, and puts more pressure on Gigi’s neck, enough to have Gigi come and Del Piero instantly releases his hold on Gigi, making the aftershocks of orgasm that much more potent with the sudden influx of air. 

When Gigi opens his eyes, Canna’s staring at him, standing at the foot of the bed. Gigi feels self-conscious, flayed open by his friend’s eyes.

“You never told me,” Canna says. “Gigi, you. You never _told_ me.”

“I didn’t know,” Gigi says, voice rasping a little. Del Piero hands him a glass of water and Gigi takes it without thinking, as if they’ve done this a hundred times before because they have. Gigi sips, says, “I didn’t realise. For a long time.” 

Canna moves, then, and sits on the bed next to Gigi, completely unconcerned with Gigi’s nakedness, the strands of come over Gigi’s skin and the towels he and Del Piero placed down beforehand. Canna runs his fingertips over Gigi’s throat, lightly, so lightly that Gigi shivers at the phantom touch. 

Del Piero says, “He’s my best friend, Canna,” like that means something to the two of them. Perhaps it does; Canna doesn’t say anything but he does nod. Gigi is tired, can’t keep up with the unspoken words flying between his captain and his best friend. He closes his eyes again, hums when Del Piero runs a hand down his arm, turns his face into Canna’s thigh. 

_5._

The whistle has blown. Another match going into penalties, but at least this isn’t the final, at least it isn’t the World Cup. Gigi can’t take that again but the Euros, that isn’t any better. 

David Villa is in front of him and it doesn’t take any thought to pull the striker close, to embrace him, his hands around Villa’s neck. Gigi has aged since the first time he stood between the posts; they are on opposing teams but they are still the same, Italy and Spain, still down in the middle of a pitch being watched by thousands of screaming people -- a modern-day coliseum and they are playing their hearts out, have given blood and sweat and tears already to the circus, to the madness. 

Villa’s neck is so small, under Gigi’s gloved hands, so thin and fragile. 

“Forget how to breathe,” Gigi whispers to him, as he looks at the crowd, as he looks at the sky, “so you can remember how to live.”


End file.
